


Out with the Bathwater

by Kiwi Stubbly-Punk (cranky__crocus)



Series: Harry Potter Fests '11 [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: dysfuncentine, F/F, F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-01
Updated: 2011-03-01
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:49:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/Kiwi%20Stubbly-Punk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One history of Minerva McGonagall’s pre-Headmistress life, which she would prefer to keep out of any and all biographies (comment especially applicable to any writing of one Rita Skeeter).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out with the Bathwater

**Author's Note:**

> Written for dysfuncenting (Livejournal comm) for 2011. More after re-reading/editing, whenever I get to it.

An old chair sat before a window, lit by the light of a near-full moon. A thick head of hair emerged atop the arched wood; Minerva knew that head well. She took careful steps into the room and stopped before the window.  
  
She noticed that the seated man wore not a stitch. The moonlight slid over his erection and caught at the shadows of the hair surrounding it. Despite his current state, his hands remained on the arms of the old rocker, grasping the ends of the wood with a firm but composed grip. Minerva leaned against the sill of the wide window; moonlight entered around her and lit her from behind, shadowing her front and face.  
  
“I know, Minerva,” he said without turning to look at her. His face was not strained despite his tone. Minerva resisted the urge to cross her arms before her chest; she pushed them down to rest on the sill next to each of her thighs. She grasped the wood as well, though she imagined there was more tension in her grip than there seemed to be in his.  
  
“What do you know, Frank?” She was not the sort to feign ignorance. She was the sort to catch on quickly, but here she did not.  
  
Frank Longbottom at last brought his eyes to her face, seemingly at his name. Minerva’s eyes were barely visible, but she guessed that even if the sight had been clear as crystal, Frank would still be looking _at_ them rather than _in_ them. Frank was a man of humour and harmony, not conflict—in many ways, that was Minerva’s domain.  
  
He scarcely maintained his limited eye contact. “I know we both have the same secret.”  
  
Minerva sighed out the faint desire to throttle him or snap for him to stop dancing around the erumpent in the room. She realised that the first was rightfully frowned upon by the Ministry and that the second never helped Frank express himself. She worked to keep her voice even and patient. “What secret do we share?”  
  
The moon captured his gaze once more. In its light, Minerva saw his eyebrows and lips twitch.  
  
“We both love Augusta more than we love each other.”  
  
Minerva felt fear clench in her gut. She knew this about herself—she did try, above all, to be honest—and she had guessed it about Frank. That wasn’t what bothered her. If this was the start of an end, she had a feeling she would be the odd one out. She hoped she was wrong on both counts and monitored her breathing until some of the knots in her gut released.  
  
She forced herself to ask the hardest of questions: “What do we do?”  
  
Frank was running at half-mast now. It was an odd way for Minerva to realise that he, too, was upset by this situation; and yet it was one of the most honest ways, even from the most honest of men.  
  
“I don’t know,” he responded. His tone held regret. There was that honesty again. “I think…well, this may be wrong, but I think _we_ —the two of us—could still manage it. Happily.” He stopped to glance sideways, and continued at Minerva’s slight nod. “But I think Augusta can sense it. It’s—we’re—” He sighed forcefully, a sign of his frustration; Frank hated when words failed him. He always sought to speak so diplomatically, to harm the fewest people while delivering the most truth. “It’s wearing her down.”  
  
A soft sound from Minerva’s throat was the only indication of her agreement. Frank sighed again, this time with less force; he was sad, not frustrated.  
  
It seemed to be a day of difficult questions. Minerva heard herself ask, “Whom does Augusta love?”  
  
She surprised herself with the question, but realised quickly that she was forever asking questions she wasn’t sure she was prepared to have answered—some masochistic form of personal growth that always managed to sneak up on her. The question did not appear to surprise Frank.  
  
He laughed, but it was not a sound of joy, which differentiated it immediately from his usually vibrant laughter. This one came in the form of breathy exhales, as if he couldn’t manage to keep the air inside himself and had to modulate its escape. Minerva listened for his words. When they arrived, they were quiet.  
  
“I think she loves us both—as close to equal as I can tell.” The laughter came again. “It’s funny, almost, that in that regard she would be the one of us most fit for this arrangement. But she doesn’t seem able.”  
  
Minerva regarded him carefully, from the thick head of hair she had felt against her collarbone so many times, down to his feet and long toes, which he had once slipped into heels as a show for his two ladies. They had taken such delight in the hilarious and startlingly seductive costume, even if Augusta was not one to speak on such things often after the act. Frank was a good man. Minerva valued his thoughts.  
  
“Why, do you think?”  
  
Frank ruffled his hair with his fingers, and while the act did not set Minerva aflame as she knew it did Augusta—before she scolded him—it did set the warm sensation of affection to her womb, which worked to offset the fear that remained. He held those same fingers to his chin, stepping further toward thoughts and away from feelings.  
  
“It must be difficult to feel such things for both of us, and look upon us to find that we do not share it with each other as she does. I don’t believe we can prove to her that our feelings for each other—our friendship and fondness—keep us content, especially when we are made kindred by our love of Augusta. She is too passionate to believe there can be that sort of happiness between two people without the sort of love she carries for both of us; she wouldn’t believe it keeps us as happy as it does her.”  
  
“And breaking us up _would_ make us happy?” Minerva questioned, voice growing sharp. She hoped that Frank would know it was not aimed at him, or even at Augusta’s beliefs—those couldn’t really be helped.  
  
Frank shook his head and fell back in his chair; he had leaned forward during his speech. “No. Or not immediately, not as a solution itself—just in joy as the natural condition of life. Which is to say, eventually.”  
  
Minerva couldn’t help a little smile at Frank’s optimism; that was the effect he often had. It was one thing she loved about him—perhaps it was not the way Augusta did, but still grounded in strong feelings. Frank smiled back.  
  
He spoke again. “I doubt she would ever suggest such a thing anyway, not on her own. I doubt she knows what to do.” He gazed up and met Minerva’s eyes, or what he could see of them. “I doubt _we_ know what to do. _I_ know that we love each other, in our own special way, and that I would be happy to continue on. But we agreed on consensus, and with Augusta…”  
  
“She’ll argue we have consensus until we hold up a mirror,” Minerva finished. “If this arrangement doesn’t make her happy, then none of us are happy. She can’t deny that out of fear that the immediate future will bring her pain, when the future after that may hold more joy.” Minerva wasn’t sure if she was speaking of Augusta or herself, there; she conceded that it was probably both. “We have to talk to Augusta.”  
  
Frank gave a resigned nod. “We do. Things may change. I’ll miss my tall, dark, and handsome women.”  
  
“You’ll still have us.” Minerva ducked down before him and caught his eye with a steady gaze. “Maybe not the same way. But you’ll still have us, even if things are different.” This time, Minerva knew she was reassuring herself as well—she would not let herself lose her friendship with Frank.  
  
She glanced down to find that Frank was upright again in more ways than one. She smiled as she looked up to his face.  
  
“We will speak with Augusta soon. For now, would you like a hand?”  
  
Gratitude flashed across Frank’s features. “Yes, please.”  
  
Please, he said after she had offered. Please. Love was not required for arousal _or_ release, but Minerva was reminded that she loved Frank dearly, in her own way. She wasn’t sure how anyone wouldn’t love him. He was a good man.  
  
Minerva warmed her hands with her breath and cradled him, running her fingers along his shaft with a gentle rotation over his head and a quick rub below, just where he liked it. She took great joy in observing his pleasure and orchestrating its release. She applied just the hint of tongue, urged on by his quick gasps, and sat back as he finished.  
  
Frank was quiet, then, as he sat in the old chair with the moonlight pouring in over his closed eyes and limp member, where it rested against his thigh. He was no longer rigid with things unsaid, issues not communicated. Minerva smiled at that.  
  
She cleaned him up with a spell and stood. Before she left, she ducked down to kiss his forehead, right at the line of his hair.  
  
He murmured, “Love you, Min.”  
  
“Love you too, Frank.”  
  
It was no one’s business what sort of love—or absence of it—led to what acts. Well, no one’s but theirs, and Augusta’s. But if Augusta didn’t feel their unbalanced ‘triad’ worked for her—if she wanted a triangle when they could only truthfully provide a ‘V’ connecting their dots to hers, and not to each other’s…  
  
The thought weighed heavy on her heart as she closed the door behind her and headed for the bath. She was sure such thoughts would be on her mind often in the near future; for now, she tried to brush them away.  
  
Especially since other thoughts of Augusta were rushing in after the final moments with Frank; this bath had the potential to be a very satisfying one indeed. If there was nought to do but wait, there were more pleasant ways than simply sitting around, sulking.  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
  
Thick eyebrows drawn down and rigid, lips pursed in one severe line, muscles tensed with heavy emotions: Augusta’s body language was something to see. Minerva wished she _wasn’t_ seeing it; her lover’s expression shot guilty pain through her abdomen, despite her agreement with Frank that this was the right thing to do.  
  
“You don’t think I’m happy?” Augusta finally managed. Her eyebrows twitched, close to leaving their angry rigidity for the looser curve of sorrow; they steadied with her voice. “Why would I still be here?”  
  
Minerva, who stood behind a kitchen chair, pulled it out until she could seat herself on it. With her back straight—as it always was—she sat level with Augusta. “Sixth year exam period: what did you tell me about Tom?”  
  
Augusta’s eyes narrowed at the subject matter; Minerva rarely brought it up. Desperate times.  
  
“I told you that he was abusive and that he was using you, that I knew you weren’t naïve or feeble enough to pull the wool over your own eyes the way some women do. I told you that the one thing I didn’t know my Minerva McGonagall to ever do—even if it got her in trouble—was lie.” Augusta’s eyes narrowed further as she added, “Now stop playing games with me.”  
  
“Almost,” Minerva responded evenly; she ignored the final comment. “You told me I was not to lie _to whom?_ ”  
  
Augusta shifted uncomfortably. “To yourself.”  
  
“Or to you, if I recall correctly,” Minerva remarked in a lighter tone, letting Augusta off the hook. “But yours was the important point.”  
  
Augusta’s eyes were hard. “This is hardly an abusive arrangement, Minerva, and you needn’t bring that story up as a reminder to be honest.”  
  
Frank cleared his throat. He sat at the kitchen table as well, though he had been silent since initiating the conversation between the three of them. The two women turned to him, the action ingrained in them from years of finding worth in his words.  
  
“Augusta, are you happy?” His eyes held hers over the wood. Minerva placed her foot atop his under the table and turned to look at Augusta as well. “ _Truly?_ ”  
  
Augusta looked between the two of them for several heavy moments. She reached out over the table-top and grasped one hand of each of her partners.  
  
Minerva and Frank did not grasp hands.  
  
Augusta could not see their feet beneath the table. Her lips quivered; she bit down.  
  
“Happy?” she repeated. Sometimes, the sound of a voice was all it took.  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
  
Now that Minerva’s relationship with Augusta and Frank had ended, she saw no reason to refuse the position she had been offered at Hogwarts. Albus had been overjoyed; Minerva was not so quick for joy, but felt a certain contentment as she surveyed her new, yet familiar, surroundings. The rooms were new because she had never lived in them before, though she had been shown them as part of the interview process; they were familiar because they were still so clearly a part of Hogwarts, which had been her home away from home for so many years of her youth.  
  
The rooms were simple and minimal: a lounge with a hearth, one high window, two old armchairs, a small table, and a bookcase built into the wall; a bedroom with a small double bed, a curtained window, a wardrobe, and a nightstand with two little drawers; and a bathroom with a claw-foot bath (a selling point for her), a basin, a mirrored cabinet, and some towel racks. The colours were muted, quieted by years of teachers signing on one year and leaving the next, and the rooms lacked any personality save the clear feel that they were well-used, even if not well-loved.   
  
It was nothing to write home about—though she had, to Augusta and Frank—but it was something, and it was hers, for now.   
  
Minerva had her own ideas for the place; she guessed that within the week, the colours would be anything but muted, veering instead toward rich reds and golds… She would have to do something about the bed as well. It looked like a sad cross between a single and a double, without successfully being either. Albus may have checked the ‘celibacy’ box on his teaching application decades back, but she hadn’t; she would have those extra inches on her bed if she had to conjure them right off his. It was in need of a duvet with some colour, too—a colour that could not be described as ‘desolate grey.’  
  
A first-year teacher’s spread of rooms. It was strange, Minerva thought as she dipped down into one of the armchairs, that she was back at school as a first-year. She hadn’t pictured this for her life. Or, to be honest, she had pictured it as one of many paths her life could take; what she hadn’t expected was for this one to approach quite so quickly.  
  
But as she stared around the blank walls of stone and wood, Minerva acknowledged that breakups had forever presented the opportunity—or imperative—for life changes, possibly with even more success than new relationships did, if admittedly less pleasant. And so she found herself teaching.  
  
Minerva opened the first book from the pile of Transfiguration material she had received from Albus. There was a set of skeletal lesson plans and syllabi with the basics each year must learn, of course, but it was time to make them hers—to fill in the details her own way.   
  
It was a job to do. With the ache she could still feel over Augusta and Frank, Minerva needed something to distract her mind. She began to take notes.  
  
She also realised how grateful she was to have another month before the start of her first year on the other side of the desk.  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
  
The winter holidays had come and gone by the time Minerva realised that her breakup hadn’t been much of a break. She visited Augusta as frequently as their schedules allowed and met with Frank or the two together half as often. Some meetings remained platonic—mostly those that occurred in public and did not start or end anywhere with a bed, empty or clearable horizontal surface, or small soundproofed nook well away from the public eye. Mostly it was Augusta. Occasionally, Frank was involved as well, although when he and Minerva met without Augusta, it was only as friends.  
  
Minerva could hardly deny that it felt good on some level. Physically, it was precisely what she desired. Mentally, it gave her something steady from her past that she could grasp as she learned the new, and occasionally intimidating, ropes of her fresh career; it was a crutch of sorts, to keep her from feeling too green behind the ears—a feeling she hated—in _all_ aspects of life. It was comfortable because it was not new, just familiar.  
  
Emotionally, however, it was not what she needed. Minerva knew that she and Augusta were not together. It was a strange distinction. They were in love and in lust, but they were not together, especially not with Minerva’s new career and home.  
  
Minerva also knew that Augusta and Frank were not together. They were equally in love and in lust, but still not together. Augusta’s love for Minerva and Frank was more separated than ever; Minerva could see that it was doing little good beyond providing a crutch for them all, a comfort against change.  
  
As Minerva lay in Augusta’s old, treasured bed—with Augusta sated and sleeping between herself and Frank—Minerva felt guilty and selfish for prolonging what had to happen. Whatever occurred between Augusta and Frank, Minerva knew that she had to make a real break soon.  
  
Her lids began to close with sleep. The realisation and resolve had taken enough courage out of her for the day. She knew that she would come the next time Augusta beckoned, but soon… It had to be the beginning of an end. A real end.  
  
Minerva fell asleep with Frank’s fingers threaded lightly in her hair and Augusta’s arm over her waist, for once feeling relieved that she had second-year essays to mark as a distraction from her new pain.  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
  
Augusta’s mouth was hot on hers; it had been more than a month since they had last managed to meet. (Some of the Valentine’s Day decorations had still been up at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop—hopeless romantic that she was—when Minerva had Apparated away from the Three Broomsticks.)  
  
Despite the fact that Augusta was consistently active with double the partners Minerva had, Augusta was the one to hurry them out of their lunch at Old Oakby’s, one of their favourite eateries near Augusta’s home. They had barely made it in the doorway when Augusta had lunged.  
  
Minerva felt the back of her head smack against the door—Augusta had already made quick work of her bun—but couldn’t say she minded. It was the lightest of throbs compared to what she could feel within the folds of her robes, and soon Augusta was tugging at those as well. Minerva smiled against the woman’s lips and held her robes firm with one hand, just to be the contrary and a little bit maddening.  
  
She leaned back, knocking her head against the door again, and took in the sight of Augusta: dark blue robes rapidly growing askew over her thin frame; dark-blonde hair in a mussed chignon; an expression of impatient consternation over the pause in their activities. The look spread heat through Minerva’s body; the throbbing between her legs pressed at her attention.  
  
Minerva reclaimed the space between them and pressed their lips together once more. When Augusta’s tongue found hers, less than hesitant, Minerva’s restraint was no more. She pushed them forward into the room, the hand that had held her robes together abandoning the task to part Augusta’s. Minerva fumbled only slightly as she pushed Augusta up against the kitchen table and snaked her hand in behind the material of the woman’s brassiere. There she found her target: Augusta’s soft and heavy breast, the one immediately noticeable difference between their two similarly-structured bodies.  
  
Augusta sighed through her teeth and yanked her cloak and robes off. She held herself up on one firm elbow, angling her chest up to Minerva’s touch, and drew an arm up over Minerva’s shoulder to bury fingers in threads of ebony silk above the nape of Minerva’s neck. Minerva nipped at Augusta’s lip when the fingers tightened for a firmer grip.  
  
Minerva offered Augusta’s nipple one last swirling caress before remorsefully removing her hand to slip out of her own cloak and robes. Her long white-cotton shift looked lacklustre next to Augusta’s expensive, shorter-cut shift of light blue silk; Augusta was wearing her favourite, Minerva recognised. The fabric was cool and splendid beneath Minerva’s fingers as she drew them from Augusta’s waist—there was definitely boning there, some sort of corset—down to her thigh, where Minerva noticed a hidden garter belt.  
  
Suddenly, Minerva’s long shift and simple under-clothes felt like very little to be wearing, and yet the pleasant thought of unwrapping Augusta pushed the thought from her mind.  
  
She pulled back from Augusta’s lips, which had found her neck, and took her dear time drawing one finger up from Augusta’s knee. It travelled over the smooth surface of Augusta’s stocking—the silken shift sliding up her thigh as Minerva’s lone finger quested further—and up over Augusta’s knickers and garter belt, black over pale skin, to the start of a dark whale-boned corset. Minerva added a second hand and just one more finger to aid her in removing Augusta’s shift. She wanted the act of removal to be as tantalising for Augusta as the lingerie beneath would be for Minerva.  
  
Augusta didn’t seem to agree with the process. She tugged at Minerva’s hands, urging them to work faster. Minerva resisted and continued to draw the slip slowly up Augusta’s body, one finger of each hand journeying up Augusta’s corset, carefully placed between the boning so the touch was ever so slightly noticeable.  
  
When Minerva reached the top of the corset, fit snug up under Augusta’s bust, she lifted the shift fully away from Augusta’s body and slipped it off over her head. Augusta’s arms shot up to be rid of it. Minerva tried to place it carefully on the nearby kitchen chair, but being silk, it instead slithered off like a stream down a mountainside. She would have to take care in not stepping on it.  
  
The fallen silk could not hold her attention for long, not when she could hear Augusta’s hastened breathing so close by. Minerva stepped up until her hips were nearly pressed to the table, spreading Augusta’s thighs around her with practised ease. She used her new position to allocate the proper time to admiring Augusta’s breasts, which were held up in a more modern brassiere than Minerva had expected, but found she thoroughly enjoyed. It was black like the corset and accessories, but as Minerva reached to gently cup at one, she could feel patterning; it was an exquisite item that outshone any article Minerva had known Augusta to own. The cups lifted and accented Augusta’s treasured bosom like none other, creating above the cups two soft mounds of breast that disappeared behind the ornate material.  
  
Minerva was seldom taken off guard and even less made speechless, but as she stood and stared, she found she was both.  
  
“Glad you like it,” Augusta breathed. She wrapped her free arm around Minerva’s waist and drew her in. “You could show me how much.”  
  
Minerva recognised the sound of a challenge. She smiled, pressed a kiss to Augusta’s lips, and dropped down to feel one soft mound with her cheek. It was a divine feeling, that. She moved to feel the other, and then returned to the centre where she could feel both with ease. Augusta’s hand moved back to her hair and pushed down with care, a sign of her enjoyment. Minerva left a wet kiss and a swirl of her tongue at the top of each yielding slope, then ran her tongue down along the crevice. When she drew back, she saw goose-pimples along Augusta’s pale skin.  
  
Minerva decided then that she had no desire to unwrap Augusta quite yet, and could work around any clothing; it seemed a pity to take it all of prematurely. Instead, she thumbed Augusta’s nipples through the fabric—Augusta’s head dipped back to reveal her neck—and journeyed right back down Augusta’s body again.  
  
Augusta’s thighs were tighter around Minerva as she ducked down. Minerva kissed each inner thigh in a similar fashion to the previous breast kisses before lifting one thigh up over her shoulder. It was intoxicating, the feel of Augusta’s thigh hard against her cheek and ear and shoulder, with the scent of Augusta so near and dear. Minerva took a deep breath to fully enjoy the moment. Then she drew Augusta’s lingerie to the side and, when Augusta squirmed in the way she did when she was ready, Minerva began.  
  
She stayed down until she could feel the heat of Augusta all around her, could hear Augusta’s breathing hitch between quick gasps, and could see the flush beginning to coat her skin. Minerva left the paradise between Augusta’s thighs, then, and relied upon her hand as she stood. If Augusta was disappointed, she didn’t show it; instead she gripped Minerva tight and drew her close. Augusta’s thigh was between Minerva’s, now, and the contact even through her underthings drove her mad.  
  
Still, she worked her fingers to the beck and call of Augusta, thumb carefully swiping at the engorged pearl above her moving fingers, and brought her other hand to Augusta’s breasts once more. She slipped inside the brassiere and gripped Augusta’s nipple intermittently between her fingers. Minerva was headed toward Augusta’s neck when the woman caught her in both hands and drew their mouths together.  
  
Augusta’s kisses were hot and sloppy and full of her gasping breath. She was feverish against Minerva, grasping and clinging as her legs danced beneath them. Minerva felt the movements between her legs and gasped herself, suddenly wishing she had more hands to touch Augusta everywhere, to witness more of the pleasure that set this woman aflame.  
  
Minerva pulled away from Augusta’s mouth and moved to her neck, nibbling up her neck to her ear as her hand worked. Augusta moaned and moved toward Minerva’s hot breath, which she used to blow across the area she had drawn on with the tip of her tongue. She sucked at the spot behind Augusta’s ear that had always driven her lover mad.  
  
Augusta’s trembling began in earnest, then, and Minerva could feel the clenching against her fingers. She pulled back to look at Augusta as she climaxed: her head tilted back, the red mottling across her face, the slight sheen of perspiration above it, her eyes locked closed, her reddened neck bare and long, the set of her mouth in a sustained ‘o’. Her sounds were minimal—some guttural utterances as she breathed—but her look was so vulnerable and yet powerful that Minerva could never look away. It was beauty in motion.  
  
When Augusta’s body calmed, Minerva reclaimed her hand. She blew across Augusta’s neck and chest as Augusta sat resting.  
  
Near a minute later, Augusta remarked in a hoarse voice, “You really liked it.”  
  
“Pleased I got that across,” Minerva responded through an entertained smile. She found that her breath was coming quicker than usual, as well, and she was acutely aware of Augusta’s leg between hers. She was also feeling less than steady on her feet. Augusta lifted her leg to steady Minerva, but it was unsurprisingly unhelpful. “If we could make it to the bedroom this time, I’d be grateful.”  
  
Augusta grinned a feisty grin that made Minerva grip the table with one hand. She was in for it now. As she felt the heat radiating out from below her abdomen and the throb that she could feel in an increasing radius, she thought there was nothing she’d rather be in for.  
  
She didn’t hesitate when Augusta stood up and guided them toward the bedroom. Minerva had promised herself this. Life and decisions could wait a time; they could always wait for Augusta.  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
  
Minerva and Augusta remained in the bedroom for a long while yet. First Augusta had Minerva blindfolded and postponed Minerva’s desired leg rest until she had experienced a number of textures and sensations Augusta used as she circled Minerva’s naked body. It was one of their favourite games. Minerva guessed the first three quarters successfully but was too distracted by the last quarter to apply the full extent of her mind. By then, Augusta let the woman sit, though she did not allow removal of the blindfold until Minerva was closing in on her first climax.  
  
When Minerva’s vision had cleared, she could see that Augusta was contemplating restraints, but ultimately did not choose them. Instead she had removed a harness from her nightstand and strapped it about herself, a pale pseudo-phallus positioned above her underthings, which she kept on. It had been a gift the year before and was one of her favourites to use when Frank wasn’t around, and occasionally when he was.  
  
They had both enjoyed themselves with that activity. Augusta, seen as a maiden to those passing her on the streets, had always loved the power she felt as she took on what she thought to be a man’s role. Minerva, now mistakenly judged to be a prim schoolmarm until marriage or death, loved the excitement of broken roles and gifting her control to a trusted lover for a short time. That, and she loved the feel of penetration the way Augusta loved the motions of her hips. Minerva had not been quiet.  
  
Minerva was always thrilled with one completion of a session. Augusta had required assistance with finishing a second time; Minerva dutifully and reverently obliged, once she had at last stripped Augusta of her corset, stockings, garter belt and lingerie.  
  
With Augusta sated beside her, one leg over Minerva’s hips, Minerva felt a sense of settled serenity she rarely felt elsewhere. Augusta toyed with a tress of long black hair that had settled down over Minerva’s shoulder and down to her hip. Augusta’s head rested near Minerva’s breast, which was petite compared to Augusta’s—especially as she lay on her back—but which Augusta had always loved and Minerva had found little fault with. Minerva stroked her fingers down Augusta’s side and admired the silent tranquillity.  
  
She did until it was broken beyond repair, at least.  
  
“Frank has asked me to marry him,” Augusta said. It wasn’t stated softly—Augusta did not state things softly—but it was quiet, perhaps remorseful. Minerva didn’t care to analyse it as she felt her blood run cold. Her fingers stopped moving. She held the breath she had taken before Augusta’s words.  
  
After a moment, they hissed out. “He _what?_ ”  
  
“Asked me to marry him.”  
  
Now Minerva could tell Augusta was holding something back. The answer, certainly. Minerva could scarcely believe that she had felt serenity so few seconds ago, when now she felt frozen with rage. Frozen or aflame—she couldn’t even tell.  
  
She noticed once more that Augusta was resting upon her. Minerva pulled herself out of the embrace and sat up, her hair spilling about her in ebony waves; she tugged the final tress from Augusta’s hand and it fell to cover her nipple. The nudity of Minerva’s body bothered her little; the painful nakedness she felt at Augusta’s words bothered her beyond her immediate comprehension.  
  
Minerva could feel the pain and rage colouring her face as she responded, “He said nothing to me.”  
  
Augusta sat up as well, her face hardening to its more steely countenance as she gazed upon Minerva; clearly she had expected this to go another way. That bothered Minerva, as well. “He didn’t have to, did he? We’ve no need of consensus these days.”  
  
“No, certainly,” Minerva said bitterly, “a man need never bring it up when proposing marriage to the woman his best friend loves.” She turned her head away and scowled. “Especially when his best friend can’t ask for the hand herself.”  
  
“He didn’t mean—” Augusta stopped her hurried words. They sounded hard, too. She reigned in her tone to some semblance of normalcy. “He didn’t plan it. He took me to Italy, and Rome was so beautiful…”  
  
Minerva’s spine straightened as she turned to catch Augusta’s eye. Her words were very clear, each syllable cut slowly and perfectly pronounced. “Did he have a ring?”  
  
“He did.” Augusta took a small box from beneath her pillow and opened it, but Minerva looked away first. The thought made her sick. She and Augusta had made love—she detested the phrase, but they had made something, and it was out of love—on this very bed, with that detestable ring unknown and hidden to her beneath the very pillow into which she had cried out her pleasure.  
  
Minerva stood and took a step from the bed, suddenly wishing nothing to do with its entirety; it felt wrong somehow. “Then it wasn’t spontaneous, it was premeditated. He declined to offer me the _modicum_ of respect as to at least tell me beforehand. That warrants no forgiveness.” She heard herself speak of the event as if it were murder, and yet the voice hardly sounded her own. Minerva turned on Augusta again. “And you! You had it there beneath your pillow without a mention to me, all through the lunch you abridged to get me in your bed, where that lousy little ring lay! Have you no heart, none at all?”  
  
Augusta glared up at Minerva but didn’t move. Her voice was acidic as she answered, “Not anymore.”  
  
“Oh, quaint of you, to be heartbroken at your lover’s disgust. Your husband will have to fix that for you, won’t he? I can only assume you accepted, despite your naked finger.”  
  
“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” Augusta argued; and yet as she did, she slipped the ring onto the ring finger of her left hand. For a second time, Minerva was jolted by a feeling of distress that mimicked acute illness.  
  
“No, you thought _this_ was better,” Minerva accused, gesturing to take in the room. “Perhaps you wanted one more roll in the hay with a woman before you marry a cock and its seed. It’s just as well, as I haven’t got either of those.”  
  
Augusta at last leapt from the bed until she stood before Minerva, face just as red with rage.  
  
"Minerva McGonagall! Do you honestly think I am marrying a _cock_ over you?” she screeched. “I am marrying Frank Longbottom, because he has asked me and I love him! It is no more a monogamous arrangement than we had.” Augusta sucked a breath in through her teeth, her eyes narrowed over her flaming cheeks. “And _yes_ I want children! You have always known that, just as I have always known you didn’t! But I am not marrying Frank for his seed. I am marrying Frank for Frank, and once upon a time, you understood that desire!”  
  
“Once upon a time,” Minerva repeated through gritted teeth, “And no more. I admit defeat.”  
  
“It wasn’t a competition!” Augusta screamed. She pushed Minerva back toward the wall with her body until they both stood there unmoving, save their breaths coming in ragged inhalations with the exertion. “I love you both. Frank asked. He has a home for me to stay, a place for me in his life, a shared idea of family. Somewhere deep down, you know you don’t. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you; it means we aren’t meant to be. And you will always be welcome in our marriage, in our family portrait; Frank wants that, too.”  
  
Augusta was inching steadily closer as she spoke. Her last words were not whispers, but they might have been for the blood pounding in Minerva’s ears at her rage and the feel of Augusta’s breath against her lips. When Augusta closed the distance, Minerva found herself kissing back, grabbing at Augusta’s dark-honey hair and raking nails up her bottom; Augusta’s hands were everywhere. It was instinct. It was what Minerva had always wanted, physically, and she always would.  
  
But when Augusta’s hand sought hers, Minerva felt the cold band of metal around Augusta’s finger and thought of the box filled with deceit that had lain dormant beneath their love-making, and the sickness came back. She pushed Augusta away, shocking the woman into open-mouthed staring, and walked around her.  
  
Minerva summoned her clothing and resented her status as a teacher demanding she don them professionally, rather than leave with merely her robes and cloak held tight around her as she had in the previous years of her temper.  
  
She turned to Augusta and glared, feeling stupid and silly and senseless and everything else she never wanted to be.  
  
“I don’t want that,” Minerva hissed, trying her best not to show her pain. It sounded, to her ears, like “I don’t want you”. Judging by the sudden pallor of Augusta’s face compared to its previous flush, Minerva thought Augusta had heard it that way, too.  
  
Minerva fled. She wrapped her cloak around herself, damned Augusta and teaching, and Apparated to Rosmerta’s back gardens at the Three Broomsticks, where she snuck up the back stairs into one of the storage closets to dress. It wasn’t as if she had any dignity to preserve, anyway.  
  
When at last she reached her rooms at Hogwarts, she ran a bath and submerged herself before it had sufficiently cooled. The physical pain bothered her little; the sickening pain she felt within bothered her more than she could comprehend—more than she thought she could ever stomach.  
  
Minerva McGonagall sobbed.  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
  
Minerva tracked changes over the next few days, weeks, and months. Immediately, her persona with the students and Hogwarts staff hardened; where once she was firm, now she was strict. Albus noticed the change—all-seeing as he was—and campaigned to get her into his office for a more personal cup of tea. She insisted on declining, especially when she caught him attempting to turn an evaluation meeting personal as it approached its end. She would hear none of it and would say even less.  
  
She spent as much time as she could in her room; any time she was not in class, on corridor patrol, assigned to a student watch period, or at a meal—during which she ate little and seemed to mime conversation with her colleagues—she was in her little suite, looking for distraction. Minerva developed a reputation for returning her students’ work the day after it was handed it, occasionally two to three days on the long essays; her colleagues joked that she was giving them a bad name. She re-worked the syllabus she kept for each class and year, marking down what anecdotes she would offer where and smoothing them in with the material. Next year, she would catch her students’ attention by morphing on the first day, rather than waiting four weeks. When she ran out of work to do—something she never heard her colleagues complain of—she read whatever book was closest to her, provided it was not heavy on romance.  
  
Internally, she watched with fixed detachment as the pain of what she recognised as a real breakup ebbed and flowed. Some days, with enough papers to mark and comments to write, she almost managed to forget; other days, she found herself sitting in her claw-foot bath again for emotional comfort, though never as traumatically as the first day.  
  
She was surviving. She wasn’t sure she would call it coping—if she ever allowed anyone to ask, which she wouldn’t—but she was living her life, and she could almost delude herself into thinking it was getting easier.  
  
It was all just that—a delusion. Minerva knew that eventually, word of the wedding would reach her.  
  
Three months after her terrible fight with Augusta, Minerva received a letter in a decorated envelope tied in soft light-blue ribbon. Her breath caught as her owl dropped it on her empty breakfast plate. She stuffed it away in her robes until later in the evening, after her marking was done, when she placed it on the little tea-table she had acquired and stared. She wasn’t certain why she stared, for she was sure she knew what it contained, but she didn’t feel ready to open it. The letter would undoubtedly contain what she most dreaded: a date.  
  
At last Minerva scolded herself for setting a poor example for Gryffindors everywhere. She drew her breath and untied the ribbon. The parchment in the envelope was thick: an invitation.  
  
It read: _Mr and Mrs Geoffrey Longbottom request the honour of your presence at the marriage of their son Frank G. Longbottom to Augusta M. Spinnet, daughter of Mr and Mrs Oliver Spinnet, Saturday, the Sixteenth of November at two o’clock in the afternoon. St. Martin’s Church, North Holmes Road, Canterbury._  
  
The invitation had the hint of a floral background—Augusta’s mother’s influence, no doubt—and, next to the text written down one side, a picture of Augusta and Frank laughing as they danced. It pained Minerva to remember being a part of that; she shoved the pain down and took out a second picture included in the invitation, which was of St. Martin’s Church, presumably as a brush-up for anyone Apparating. The back gave the Longbottoms’ address for a reception.  
  
There was no little letter, as Augusta would have sent with any invitation once upon a time, and Minerva’s name was nowhere beyond the outside envelope, but even then just her surname: M. McGonagall. It could as well have been her mother.  
  
She didn’t expect anything, truly, and wasn’t sure what she would have done had she received anything personalised. It was difficult enough to have a date to add to her calendar—six months from that day, nine from their argument. She hadn’t spoken with Frank or Augusta since.  
  
Minerva wrote it into her calendar and stared at it as she had at the letter. Now she had all the information.  
  
It was only a question of if she would attend.  
  
As she began to consider, she ran a bath, for she was out of work to do. A silent tear was all she allowed; once it dripped down to the surface of the water and rippled against her knee, she was done with it.  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
  
Minerva was surer now than she had ever been that she had a wide masochistic streak. She concluded this categorically as she stared up at the outer stone walls of St. Martin’s Church, one of England’s oldest churches. The Longbottoms were paying great galleons for this; Minerva felt she was paying something else, something within, to attend. Minerva knew something of regrets in life, however, and this seemed almost formulaic as a future regret. If nothing else, Minerva needed to see it done for her own completion; she hoped it would ease her passage in moving on some day.  
  
She wore quiet shoes and the most ordinary dress-robes she could find. The others were inside already as she had purposefully arrived late—the only occasion she would allow such a thing to happen. She cast a muffling charm on her shoes and apparel—herself too, as far as she could manage—and stepped inside. It truly was beautiful, however lost it happened to be on her.  
  
Minerva stood in the back by the door, cloaking herself visually with a flick of her wand. She needn’t have bothered: all eyes were upon Augusta, as well they should have been. She wore dress-robes of the lightest blue they were almost, but not quite, white; the material was tailored in at the waist but kept the long belled sleeves that were in fashion. Her hair was half piled on her head in ornate curls and twists with pinned flowers, and half loose in curls and tiny braids about her neck and shoulders. She wore a small, thin veil from her hair down over her face. Minerva could see the careful details of the outfit even from the back of the church. She was breathless as she watched.  
  
But just as the room had eyes only for Augusta, Augusta had eyes only for Frank. He stood before her in formal robes so dark a shade of blue as to be nearly black, but again not quite; the accents were the same near-white of Augusta’s dress-robes. He wore a top hat in the same dark blue, most likely one of his eccentric decisions. He was smiling his broadest smile. Frank looked so handsome and happy that Minerva almost felt ashamed to be so angry with him still, but it was not something she could help or force, and not something she had forgiven.  
  
Another flash of pain struck her as she saw the figures behind each of them. Augusta had one bridesmaid, who was her maid of honour: Galatea Moriattis, an old school chum of Augusta’s. She wore a shade of blue between Augusta’s and Frank’s, although her dress-robes were not as fine or tailored. Frank had his traditional best man as well, a tall man with a serious look about his features: Ambrose Ramley, the first friend Frank had met at the Ministry. He wore men’s formal robes the same colour as Galatea’s.  
  
Minerva realised, as she glanced over them, that had things gone another way, she could have been either one of them. Instead, she was cloaked in spells at the back of the church. It felt foreign and yet it was what she had chosen, first close to a year earlier and then consistently since.  
  
She heard the words of the Vicar and took in enough to recognise the words as a poem from the Bible about two lovers, but did not truly listen. She continued to experience the event through her sight, watching Augusta and, through his proximity, Frank; in some ways it seemed that was how it had always been.  
  
When the Vicar brought them to portion for their vows, it pained Minerva to realise that Frank could indeed offer Augusta more than she could. Minerva had always intended to teach eventually; their pre-breakup-breakup had only hastened it slightly. She never intended to keep a family home or raise children of her own. Settling for convention had never been her intention—although in a way, by choosing Hogwarts and supposed spinsterhood, she was.  
  
The pain of the vows was diminished by her thoughts. She was coming to terms with the situation; she was truly a woman possessed by herself and no other, although her feelings for Augusta would linger. She was abundantly aware of such feelings as she watched Frank and Augusta complete the marriage with an exchanging of rings, some words from the Vicar, and a kiss.  
  
Minerva took one final moment to witness their glowing faces as they gazed upon each other and then hurried out, eager to escape before the newlyweds made their way down the corridor. She Apparated home—to the gates of Hogwarts—and walked to her room, only nodding to her colleagues and gazing quickly at the students she passed; she was unwilling to hear the words spoken on her state of dress.  
  
When she reached her rooms, she stripped down to her shift immediately and ran a bath, swapping her evening bath for an afternoon one. Soon enough she lay submerged in the warm waters, face above the surface while the water made the world sound murky.  
  
Minerva didn’t cry, this time; she had come to terms with Augusta and Frank’s wedding in the days after the invitation arrived. Now she sat and listened through the water, as if it were conducive to truly listening to her emotions.  
  
The residual pain did not surprise her, it had been strong for so long. Her next emotion did.  
  
She felt relieved. It was a light feeling that made her feel freer, more capable; she felt that she had some form of agency in her own emotional existence.  
  
Augusta Longbottom was a married woman. Monogamously wed or not, she and Minerva were finished. It was a final cut.  
  
Minerva thought, for the first time, that she could truly begin to heal.

 

  
Time moved on. It felt faster to Minerva now, less weighted with the past and unresolved pain. She wasn’t free from it entirely, exactly, but it didn’t seem to edge into consciousness with the same force it once had. Her work no longer felt like a distraction, merely work. As she finished her second year of teaching and began her third, she kept up the habit of quick turn-around with marking, if only to make a good impression for her hardest year of evaluation.  
  
Albus noticed such things. When the end of her third year came, he offered her a new position atop her teaching: Head of House for Gryffindor. She accepted immediately.  
  
Beyond teaching, Minerva wasn’t a recluse insofar as she did actually leave the castle, but little came of it. She attended Quidditch matches during her free weekend a month and occasionally the pub celebrations after the games. Sometimes she flirted, when her mood allowed, and sometimes night-long or short flings would follow. She frequented the Three Broomsticks when off duty for short times in the evening, always preferring a gillywater to anything stronger.  
  
Her other relationships within the castle were amicable: Filius Flitwick provided pleasant company in the staffroom, at meals, and during school events; Albus finally succeeded in securing regular tea sessions with Minerva, including discussions of a more personal nature; Horace Slughorn’s sense of humour prevailed over her occasional dread at marking, which she had finally grown prone to; Silvanus Kettleburn’s antics were the talk of the school; and Minerva interacted positively enough with the rest of the school’s staff. Even the ghosts provided pleasant enough conversation, though she was quick to tell them she preferred they limit their presence in her personal suite.  
  
Enough of her Gryffindors—Quidditch players for the most part—frequented the infirmary that Minerva eventually became friends with the matron, Poppy Pomfrey, both through infirmary visits and staffroom talk of the students or events that brought them there. After Minerva’s sixth year, Poppy invited Minerva to her cottage in the south for a week of the summer holidays. Minerva accepted and enjoyed the peaceful trip immensely; it became a tradition, the next year becoming a two-week stay. Their friendship held the touch of romance—something akin to romantic friendships of old—but Poppy had always preferred the romantic company of men, and so it never fully blossomed.   
  
By Minerva’s eighth year of teaching, she felt entirely confident in her abilities as both a Transfiguration teacher and a Head of House. Albus noticed this change, as well, and presented her with the task of officially supporting new teachers. Minerva accepted this as well, though she found herself rolling her eyes once in her private rooms; it seemed she was the net that caught the tasks he didn’t want or have time for. Thankfully, much of the staff was supportive of new colleagues, and so she did not find the task difficult.  
  
Minerva found it especially rewarding during her ninth year of teaching, when Pomona Sprout arrived to take the position of Herbology professor. She and Pomona had been friends in Hogwarts; Pomona had been in the year below her and they had met and become acquainted through duelling club, Quidditch, and Hogsmeade trips. Pomona was kind and open, with a sense of compassionate honesty that was surprisingly just as forthright as any; she had grown into a fine woman.  
  
They became fast friends once more. Minerva learned of Pomona’s marriage after school and her children, who were grown by then. Pomona and her husband were doing well, but Pomona had mentioned her desire to teach and neither had minded the distance or the time away. Pomona said it was because of that—her own settled state in romance and sex—that she was so interested in Minerva’s love life, at which Minerva shook her head and sighed.  
  
Pomona made good on her word, as well.  
  
When a retired Quidditch player came to work at Hogwarts in Minerva’s tenth year of teaching, Pomona meddled until Minerva found herself on one of the castle’s balconies with a romantic dinner and none other than Rolanda Hooch, star chaser of the Holyhead Harpies from Minerva’s adolescence and young adulthood. Rolanda was a decade her senior, and still Minerva felt a sense of youth about her. She had been a charmer, as well, and Minerva found herself to be quite taken after the one evening.  
  
While Minerva had been with Augusta and Frank in a monogamous triad, Rolanda was not one for exclusivity. She was honourable enough to make that clear from the start. Minerva had known beforehand, as well, from the invasive tabloids of Rolanda’s life while a member of the Harpies. Rolanda did not press Minerva for any exclusive contract, either, and took delight in Minerva’s nigh-romantic relationship with Poppy. Rolanda and Pomona also became friends through Minerva, and those two were constantly up to some sort of mischief; Minerva was aghast at how often the mischief involved her and her plans for quiet evenings.  
  
It was a sort of love, what she shared with Rolanda. Minerva never saw evidence of Rolanda’s other women—she was chivalrous enough to be thorough—and so Minerva never minded. Minerva continued to attend Quidditch matches when she could, but these trips were often with Rolanda, who introduced her to countless players and coaches. Occasionally, Rolanda set Minerva up with the women who had clearly caught her eye; Minerva was startlingly grateful for the assistance.  
  
Through the years, Minerva also noticed that she was somewhat of a home base for Rolanda, possibly due to the proximity living in the same castle provided. So while they were not monogamous, it nearly felt that way during their quieter evenings spent together or with friends like Pomona or Poppy; Minerva appreciated that, as well. It brought a certain sense of normality to her work and life. It was consistent.  
  
And so, nearly a decade after Augusta and Frank’s wedding, Minerva found herself in a community that included independent friends, a considerate and cherished partner of sorts, a healthy and varied love- and sex-life, and a strong career. She hadn’t tracked her healing—her baths had long since become tools for merely washing herself—but found, as she took it all in, that she did indeed feel healed.  
  
Minerva felt she received confirmation of this when she read “Longbottom, Frank Jr.” on the list of incoming students for her fifteenth year of teaching, and did not gasp or drop the paper or feel any sort of illness. She had felt a jolt of _something_ , yes, but she had turned to Pomona and laughed, stating that this new student would provide some difficulties: Longbottom men were always late to truly grasp their magic.  
  
Pomona had said she’d known many a man who couldn’t get the grasp on their wands just right, and ducked the hand Minerva lifted to flick at her shoulder. They had dined that night like any other and shared a glass of wine in Minerva’s quarters between sweeps of the corridors and common rooms.  
  
And when Frank Longbottom, Jr. arrived at Hogwarts the next September, Minerva was able to recognise his parents in him and yet still see him as his own young person. She had noted, with some small amusement, that he had inherited his father’s large ears and young body, which was to say a touch uncoordinated. He was sorted Gryffindor, which was no surprise to her, and he thus he became doubly her student.  
  
Frank Jr. progressed through school much as Frank had described his own years: slow to start, a spot awkward and gangly, not hitting his stride in most subjects until later years. Transfiguration was not one of his strong points; when he asked for help—like Frank Sr., he was not above that—she directed him to a tutor. He improved.  
  
Minerva began to receive letters from Augusta, first short anecdotes young Frank would tell her over breaks, and then occasionally snippets from her life. None were as warm as the letters had once been, and Minerva’s responses were similar in that, but the bridge re-built was pleasant. Even Frank would jot a few lines on some of the letters; Minerva replied to those as well. They weren’t to be friends, Minerva and her previous lovers, but they didn’t feel so much like enemies, either.  
  
By his fifth year, Frank Jr. was reasonable at most subjects, although he shined at Runes and Arithmancy. He declared in his career advisory meeting that he wished to be an Auror. Minerva gave him the Ministry pamphlet and vowed to help him as best she could, as she did with all students who seemed to have a firm grasp on an attainable position.  
  
Minerva was not surprised when Frank passed all his N.E.W.T.s with flying colours and was accepted into the Auror training programme. She found herself quite proud, though of course she was proud of a great many of her students; this one felt somewhat more personal, which she could admit now that he was no longer a student.  
  
By Albus’ word, times were getting darker; he created a group he called the “Order of the Phoenix”, which Minerva believed was just the sort of name Albus _would_ give a secret society. Still, she joined up as soon as Albus asked her and took her role very seriously. She was sent to spy as often as her job allowed her to leave the castle; otherwise, she was to watch the graduating Slytherins closely and keep her ears open.  
  
Minerva _was_ surprised to receive a wedding invitation from Frank Jr. during the end of his first training year. It seemed he had grown to know Alice Eldritch, a Hufflepuff who graduated two years before him, rather well during his training at the Ministry, where she was a third-year trainee. Minerva imagined that it was the dark times before them that put such pressure to marry quickly, especially with Frank nearly an Auror.  
  
The wedding was held at St. Martin’s, the same as Frank’s parents, but the hastiness of the decision was clear in the decorations, which were not as elaborate as the previous Longbottom wedding had been. It was not Minerva’s first attendance at a prior student’s wedding, though Frank Jr. may have been the youngest groom she had yet seen. She wished them well, gifted them with a clock that would sing them awake—Augusta had mentioned Frank Jr. still enjoying that—and left before the reception, off on one of Albus’ missions. She was pleased, nonetheless, by how civil things had been between her, Augusta, and Frank; they had even embraced.  
  
It was such things, she was told—weddings, embraces, a lover to return to—that got soldiers through the dark times. Not long after the wedding, Minerva realised that was precisely what she was: a soldier.  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
  
News of Alice’s pregnancy reached Minerva through a letter from Augusta. It was fast, a short number of months after the wedding, but that was almost to be expected. Minerva had responded warmly to Augusta’s impending grandmotherhood—and teased her for entering cronehood early—before toasting the news with Rolanda, Pomona, Poppy, and the new librarian Irma, who had joined their little circle of friends through Poppy. They had toasted another happy pregnancy, as well: Lily and James Potter were also expecting; Lily had written to Minerva herself.  
  
The two pieces of good news did not produce a third, in Minerva’s opinion, when Albus announced in a staff meeting that he would be interviewing a potential Divination professor with ancestry linking back to Cassandra the Seer. Minerva had thought it was especially dreadful given how close they had been to convincing Albus that Divination was no longer required as a subject—especially when, with no teacher, it had been absent for the past three years. But no, their efforts were in vain; Minerva had only hoped that the job applicant was simply abysmal, and that she would never be required to meet the candidate. The pain of defeat would have been too much to bear, and she had said this in full knowledge of the on-going war.  
  
It had been less of a joking matter when Dumbledore had returned with news of a Divination teacher to join the staff the following year. That was bad enough, Minerva had thought, but as she had witnessed his expression during the announcement, she had thought there was something else afoot. Especially when, upon questioning, he could not name one positive quality of the applicant beyond being ‘surprised at her depth’; instead, he had drawn Minerva aside and inquired after the pregnancies of the Longbottoms and the Potters. It had all seemed very strange and secretive, but then, it was Albus after all.  
  
July was a surprisingly happy month, given the dark times. Minerva had spent much of it, between missions, at the summer cottage with Poppy; Rolanda, Pomona, Irma, and others had visited when able, as it seemed they were all eager to spend as much time among friends as possible. The end of July had brought two pieces of wonderful news: Neville was born to Alice and Frank; the following day Harry was born to Lily and James. The birth of two young wizards was an especially happy occasion during such times; Minerva had drunk more than her fill, with Rolanda there to embrace her and her spinning head. The next day—half by Order initiative and half by her own—Minerva had journeyed to visit both families and deliver her blessings.  
  
On Halloween the following year, news of the Potters’ murder overwhelmed the subdued joy Minerva had felt since the boys’ births. Minerva had hurried to meet Albus and attend the next Order meeting, heartbroken and hopeless. As Albus cared for young Harry, Minerva had inspected the Dursleys’ home and lifestyle. She was appalled at how Albus would allow the child of Lily and James Potter to live with such terrible people, magical _or_ Muggle. But, from what anyone could tell, the war had come to an end; the Potters were a final sacrifice and their infant had finished the war. Minerva was surrounded by people with magic every day—she taught them for a living—and yet Harry, for his unintentional and unexplained heroism, was _magical_.  
  
She was still aching from the loss of the Potters when she received the second piece of terrible news: Alice and Frank Longbottom had been tortured by Death Eaters and had been relocated to St. Mungo’s. This had been a terrible blow to both the Order and to Minerva, who had come to know Frank Jr. both as the son of her once-lover, as a student, and as a young friend of sorts, what with their mutual involvement with the Order. Alice had always been a kind, considerate, and capable student; it had been an honour to work with her as part of the Order. Minerva visited as soon as she was able, Augusta inconsolable at her side; that had been the day they learned the Longbottoms were being transferred to the incurable wing. It left Neville under the guardianship of Augusta and Frank Longbottom.  
  
Minerva hardly found it in herself to hope that this string of bad news did not come with a third; it seemed a terrible time to become superstitious.  
  
And yet, hardly a year later, the third bad news reached her: Frank Longbottom, Sr., was dead. Worse, he had died in front of little toddler Neville, who had been in his very arms. The department of Healers at St. Mungo’s dealing with analysis of the dead explained that it had been his heart, which no one had caught as he had neglected to seek assistance about his symptoms. Augusta confirmed that he had felt pressure on his chest, difficulty breathing, and other symptoms, but had brushed them off; he had been convinced that a war was no time for Healers to be burdened with healthy men fearing the worst. He had never got around to it.  
  
Minerva attended Frank’s funeral and held Augusta’s hand through the service, while Galatea Moriattis stood on the other side and did the same. It was much like the Potters’ funerals and the other too-high number Minerva had attended in the last few years; and yet it was different, because this was _Frank_ : her once-lover, her once-best friend, Augusta’s husband, Frank Jr.’s father. And he was dead. Minerva stayed with Augusta after the service, having attained Albus’ permission and Filius’ to take her rounds, and comforted the woman as best she could. It was frequently interrupted by Neville tugging at their robes; Minerva spent much of the night caring for him, so Augusta wouldn’t have to right away.  
  
Neville Longbottom, still shy of two years old, was now down to Augusta Longbottom as his sole guardian. Minerva could see in Augusta’s face that she would love him with the fierceness she had loved all those she had lost, and while it would be a protective embrace, it would be a tight one as well.  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
The years continued to pass, and Minerva began to feel something akin to old. She imagined it was less her age—she was still in her prime—and more with what she had seen in her years. Still, life began to play at normality, what with the wizarding world still celebrating Voldemort’s downfall at the hands of an infant. Soon that faded into the background into recent, less-referenced history, as the Grindelwald war had.  
  
Albus had approached Minerva at the end of the 1980-81 school year, when things were truly beginning to settle down after the war’s end in October. He offered her the job of Deputy Headmistress, for the Arithmancy professor who had held the position previously, Elspeth Elkins, was retiring. Minerva accepted, and assisted him in interviewing and hiring Septima Vector.   
  
They had also offered Severus Snape the job Horace Slughorn had left behind: Potions Professor and Head of Slytherin House. Minerva had required much convincing on that point. Albus explained Severus’ involvement with the Death Eaters, Sybill’s prophecy and Severus’ eavesdropping of it, Severus’ information regarding the Potters’ danger, and his new role as a double agent. Minerva had not been pleased. She was also not sure what it said of her that, on Albus’ trust alone, Minerva was willing to accept a voluntary Death Eater into her school and life. She had made little effort to know him beyond snide—and admittedly witty—exchanges, especially regarding Quidditch; he seemed no more interested in knowing her. Begrudgingly and with intentional resistance, they grew to become competitive acquaintances. If nothing else, Minerva had not been able to fault his Potions skills, however much his teaching needed improving.  
Otherwise, her work continued as it always had; teaching was, in a way, rather dependable.  
  
After Neville left his toddler years, Augusta and Minerva reached agreed that Minerva would stop her visits, for they didn’t wish to burden Neville with the difficulty of navigating a more personal relationship with a teacher while boarding at the school. This was especially the case with the likelihood of Minerva being his Head of House. Minerva paid no mind to Augusta’s fears that Neville was a Squib—there was plenty of time to tell—but did send a letter when she caught scent of Augusta’s brother Algie testing little Neville’s limits.  
  
Minerva continued on with Rolanda, whom she knew she well and truly loved as she had Augusta what seemed so long ago. They were no more exclusive than they had been decades before, but their jaunts seemed to have diminished, and they were quite settled in their arrangement together. Minerva’s only exception was Amelia Bones, whom she had formally met, of all places, at a Ministry-hosted Ball following the end of the war. Her meetings with Amelia were not frequent or long, as Amelia was all about her work, but they were enjoyable, and Rolanda never minded. Pomona always begged for details; Rolanda would place herself in the periphery of those conversations, in case Minerva spilled, and always listened carefully to what Minerva revealed. If it had bothered Rolanda, however, Minerva knew her well enough to know that she would speak on it; she didn’t, and occasionally asked after Amelia, having met her on occasion.  
  
If Augusta’s letter had not been a reminder that Neville’s crop was approaching Hogwarts, the wizarding media would have been. A decade after the war, the media swelled with articles on Harry’s approaching destiny: Would Hogwarts be for Harry? What House would the great Harry Potter be Sorted into? Would Harry play Quidditch?  
  
It reminded Minerva of what Albus had explained to her years before, about a boy growing up in such an environment. She understood the argument more now, she supposed, but still couldn’t believe there was no solution better than the _Dursleys_ —she checked up, from time to time. A cupboard under the stairs? It was a disgrace.  
  
As Deputy Headmistress, Minerva produced and signed the letters of acceptance herself; one of many went to Harry Potter, another to Neville Longbottom. Come early September, they stood before in their Unsorted Hogwarts uniforms, looking terrified and apprehensive. They seemed less so when they were both Sorted Gryffindor—Minerva had to concede some pride there—and found themselves with students to talk to at the Gryffindor table. They were as different as night and day, with Harry’s small frame and inherent sense of leadership compared to Neville’s chubby frame and youthful ungainliness.  
  
Minerva watched them both carefully, as she did all students, throughout that year and the following. Much of her attention was drawn to the brushes with evil: a form of Voldemort after the Philosopher’s Stone; the Chamber of Secrets; Sirius Black on the loose; the rebirth of Voldemort and the death of Cedric Diggory; and Dolores Umbridge, who was a detestable toad. Harry and his Trio proved themselves time and time again, always the forefront of the spotlight; Minerva saw that, in the background, Neville was growing into a force to be reckoned with.  
  
Unfortunately, not in Transfiguration. He was crestfallen when, in sixth year, she informed him that his ‘Acceptable’ wouldn’t do for continuing on to N.E.W.T. level. When she heard Augusta was the reason for his sudden interest in her subject, she couldn’t contain her snort. She urged him to take Charms—in which he received an ‘Exceeds Expectations’—and promised to write a letter to his grandmother, which she did. She had known many a meddlesome parent and guardian; Augusta was high on the list, though perhaps with good reason, given the fate of his parents.  
  
Still, when it came to her Gryffindors, she would tackle any feat—and so she would write to Augusta.  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
  
In the evening, after Minerva had marked her simple post-summer quizzes to check what her students had retained, she settled back into her armchair and summoned her portable stationery desk. She began to write a first draft without thought, aware that she could make changes for a final draft:  
  
 _Dear Augusta Longbottom,  
  
I am sorry to inform you that your grandson Neville did not receive the marks required to take Transfiguration as a N.E.W.T.-level class. I have instead enrolled him in N.E.W.T.-level Charms, for which he received ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in his exams.  
  
Kind regards,  
  
Minerva McGonagall (Deputy Headmistress; Transfigurations Professor; Gryffindor Head of House)_  
  
She was pleased enough with the first draft that she kept it as it was, although she pulled another small piece of parchment and continued with a new letter.  
  
 _Augusta Longbottom,  
  
Your grandson has ‘Exceeded Expectations’ at every turn thus far, as well you know after the events at the Ministry. Surely you must see that he is on the correct track_ without _Transfiguration, and that I say this as the very professor of the course?  
  
I recall your complaints of Charms being a ‘soft subject’. I believe I heard them long ago—when might that have been? You may have just received marks back…ah, yes, it is all clear to me now. You had received your failing mark for your Charms OWL and wrote it off as a ‘soft’ subject. You took Transfiguration instead, which I must take to mean you regard it as a ‘hard’ subject, over which I shall not argue. Instead I shall argue that you speak with dear Filius Flitwick on the subject, for perhaps it is his skill at Charms that makes him such a_ soft _dueller.  
  
Don’t hassle the dear boy, Augusta. He’ll do fine; Charms will serve him well. He can also grow a plant faster than I can kill one—it’s a wonder the whole lad isn’t green.  
  
Affectionately,  
  
Minerva_  
  
She folded them up and placed them in separately addressed envelopes. She even tied them with separate ribbons, although she sent them with the same bird.  
  
The next evening she received a letter from Augusta and smiled at the short, begrudging words:  
  
 _Minerva,  
  
Fine.  
  
Meet for tea?  
  
Augusta_  
  
Minerva scribbled her affirmative on the back of the paper and returned it to the owl before it could leave.  
  
Three days later, they met for tea at Madam Puddifoot’s. Augusta looked different, somehow, although Minerva could not pin it down. She looked more relaxed about the eyes, more present in the moment. It had been a long while since Minerva had seen Augusta regularly—not since Minerva greed to halt her visits—and she didn’t know when the change had occurred.  
  
“I _am_ proud of Neville,” Augusta stated as soon as they sat down; she said it with the hint of defensiveness. She stirred milk into her tea—no sugar, as it had been for more than half a century.  
  
Minerva blew on her tea, black and heavy, only the barest hint of sugar. She offered a small smile. “I know.”  
  
“He’s a good boy, like his father and grandfather.”  
  
Minerva’s brow arched. “And his mother, and his grandmother.”  
  
Augusta gave a lop-sided smile in return and sipped her tea. “So you say because you’re sweet on me.”  
  
“I have been,” Minerva admitted; she took a sip as well, then placed her cup on the table with her hands loosely around it. “It’s been a while.”  
  
Augusta merely nodded. “I was horrible to you.”  
  
“You weren’t kind,” Minerva agreed. She held Augusta’s eyes. “But neither was I.”  
  
“We’re not so much known for it, are we?” Augusta leaned forward. Minerva did not miss that the woman’s hands inched closer to her own.  
  
Minerva gave a chuckle. “No, we’re not.”  
  
Augusta’s hands found hers, locking her between the heat of her tea and that of Augusta, who would never entirely leave her system. Minerva recognised the change she had seen in Augusta: it was the healing, the moving on, that Minerva had worked to gain. It had taken Augusta years, but she had returned to herself.  
  
“Do you still get nights off?” Augusta asked after a moment.  
  
Minerva did not remove her hands. She grasped Augusta’s from beneath. “I do, but let’s start with tea.”  
  
  
.:|:.  
  
  
Minerva met with Augusta for tea another four times before agreeing to see her at her home.  
  
First, Minerva spoke with Rolanda about the meetings and the direction it was taking for the future. Rolanda had seemed concerned; Minerva was quick to express that she did not love Augusta as she had once, and that Rolanda had that role in her life now. Minerva promised that she would do nothing to jeopardise her relationship with Rolanda.  
  
Perhaps out of that very promise, Rolanda consented. She set no boundaries and requested no details; she assured Minerva that she did not carry any unmentioned condemnation. Rolanda went to meet with Gwenog, one of her oldest flames, the evening Minerva set out for Augusta’s.  
  
Minerva and Augusta fell back on their default, tea, to soothe the path. To soothe the past, Minerva struck up conversation.  
  
“This can’t be a rekindling or a continuation,” she told Augusta, voice firm. “This has to be something else: a new start of something different.”  
  
Augusta took a seat beside Minerva at the old kitchen table; Augusta had moved back after Frank’s death. She took a breath. “How?”  
  
“Something similar to what we had after we three ended, but less intense and regular. You were still my world then; you won’t be now. I won’t be yours. I have Hogwarts, Rolanda, friends; you have Neville and, I presume, friends.”  
  
Augusta frowned. “I have you.”  
  
Minerva glanced up, surprised by this. Augusta had always been the one to keep friends, not Minerva; it seemed reversed now. “You have me. We’ll gather your friends.”  
  
Augusta stood and walked around the room, seeming to take everything in. She stared at the kitchen table, where once the two had… She spoke quickly, her thoughts clearly on the past. “I have regrets. I hate them.”  
  
Minerva was surprised by the change in subject. She drank her tea and cleared her throat. “I have regrets as well. I regret not seeing you pregnant.”  
  
Augusta summoned a book from a case in the adjoining sitting room. It opened itself on the table to reveal pictures of Augusta, pregnant, performing various activities or none at all; Frank had outdone himself. Augusta sighed, a harder sound than it would be for most, and brushed her fingers against the table’s surface. “I regret your absence at my wedding.”  
  
“I wasn’t absent,” Minerva responded. She carefully watched for Augusta’s reaction.  
  
Her eyes widened as she turned to face Minerva. “You never said.”  
  
Minerva didn’t reply, merely gave a small smile in return.  
  
“Frank thought you were there,” Augusta said after a moment. “I didn’t believe him.”  
  
“He set the invitation charms, didn’t he?” Minerva asked. She gave Augusta a knowing look. “He was always the one with a knack for charms.”  
  
Augusta laughed and flapped her hand. “I conceded to that one already: Charms is not soft. Don’t be a broken record.” She walked to Minerva’s side and rested one hand on her shoulder. “I regret not keeping up with your life before Neville came along.”  
  
Minerva shook her head, but placed her hand atop Augusta’s. “There was very little.”  
  
“I don’t agree,” Augusta replied as she moved to pull Minerva up by their linked hands. “There was you, turning into this powerful, important, self-possessed woman I see today. We couldn’t do this the same way we did before if we tried, Minerva. You were all those things before, to me, but you have truly grown into yourself.”  
  
Minerva stood as she was urged to and kept hold of Augusta’s hand, which she held before her. “I’m not the only one. Marriage and motherhood have brought out the fierceness in you—if ever someone missed the Lion in you before, he would quickly see it now.”  
  
This brought a slight shade of pink to Augusta’s cheeks, and Minerva was reminded of how delightful it was to make Augusta blush—only a rare thing could. Augusta seemed to have no response. Minerva was glad of the silence as she gazed at Augusta, the woman she had loved again, and had found now to be a woman grown.  
  
When Augusta kissed her this time, it was not the ferocious meeting of mouths it had been during Minerva’s last memorable kisses with Augusta. It was consenting, soft, hesitant, and ended too soon. Minerva followed Augusta’s mouth away and caught it again, using her free hand to draw Augusta closer.  
  
It had been a long time. 40 years since the corset, the table, and the bed.  
  
Minerva had the sudden desire to move elsewhere before it got too heated, somewhere that didn’t call to mind immediate memories. She backed Augusta to the sitting room, where they made it so far as the floor—just shy of the sofa—before they were too involved to move.  
  
Later, when Augusta was steady enough on her legs to push up onto the sofa, Minerva left to run a bath. It reminded her of long ago, when she had used the act as something like a ritual of healing, a way of keeping tabs on her emotions. Those were Augusta baths as well, but nothing like this. She felt healed in her heart of hearts, separate from Augusta, even with the next war approaching; perhaps that was her growth. She would always soldier on.  
  
This time, when the bath was ready and she turned off the faucet, Augusta walked up behind Minerva and rested her chin on Minerva’s shoulder. Her glorious breasts, hanging closer to the earth these days and beautiful for it, pressed against Minerva’s back.  
  
“You ran a bath,” Augusta said; Minerva could hear the smile.  
  
“I did. Would you care to join me?”  
  
“Very much.” She leaned to test the water with her finger and exhaled through her teeth. “You’re always getting yourself in hot water, Minerva McGonagall.”  
  
Minerva stepped into the bath and sat against one edge, submerging much of her body. She looked Augusta up and down and grinned, teeth flashing. She knew Augusta was exaggerating. “You’ll just have to wait for me, then.”  
  
“I’ll be waiting a lifetime for that mess to cool down,” Augusta grumbled. Nevertheless, she stepped up to the bath. “Budge up,” she demanded, and then settled herself in behind Minerva, hands eager to roam her front.  
  
As Minerva leaned back against Augusta and basked in the feel of Augusta’s cheek next to hers, Augusta’s breasts to her shoulders, and Augusta’s front firmly pressed to her back, Minerva was profoundly grateful that in the end she had not thrown the baby out with the bathwater. None of them. She hoped it would continue in the future, through the war and what was to come; it was a dark lot upon them, creeping steadily in.  
  
But as Minerva cried out this time, it was not in sobs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :D


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